


Wheel of Westeros Book Two: Rise of Daenerys Part Four

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [20]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s07e02 Stormborn, F/M, Lys (ASoIaF), Multi, The Brotherhood Without Banners (ASoIaF), Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Griff leaves Winterfell with a promise, and takes a very precious cargo with him. Queen Myrcella enlists arms against her family's enemies, still battling an affliction that has plagued her since she left Dorne. Daenerys begins her tour of negotiations to end slavery in Lys, where she and Victarion take in some of the local culture.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister & Taena Merryweather, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Myrcella Baratheon & Cersei Lannister, Victarion Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, Young Griff/Sansa Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter One of B2:P4

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Two: Rise of Daenerys Part Four**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

Some men of the Golden Company were hauling the promised meat and fish through the gates while Harry Strickland supervised. Frozen or half-frozen salt pork and beef, multiple rashers of bacon, pickled whitefish, smoked trout and salmon, stewed goat and venison: all went into the icy larders of Winterfell as a number of Northern folk and Wildlings looked on with somewhat begrudged gratitude on their faces. Griff watched from the window of his room in the guest keep, being careful not to make a show of his charity, which would only hurt their stubborn pride. Only when delivery was finished would he emerge to go into the Sept, or what was left of it, to pray before his farewell pronouncement to be given in the great hall. He was happy to be returning to the South, and especially to his sweet Arianne, who he missed painfully. At the same time, leaving the North behind made him sad, for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

Over the weeks he had spent in the ruined castle, he had seen and learned much that awed and mystified him. The Others were real, evidently, and so were wargs, and giants. There was an undead enemy edging closer to the Wall with every drop in temperature that could only be vanquished with Valyrian steel, fire, and dragonglass. In the North, the Old Gods still lived, and they had saved King Jon from execution. It made Griff feel small, and he had to remind himself that Jon Snow and his people were desperately in need. He had trained himself to see the resentment in their eyes as broken pride, for surely they knew this rebellion was short-lived.

A woman among the Freefolk called “White Mask” had described Jon’s failed execution quite differently than Jon had done, and in a croaking whisper that made Griff’s skin crawl. He had believed nothing of the tale, thinking he might never have the truth of what happened. However, when Jon and Griff had hunted together in the Wolfswood, he had seen the young king change skins with a shadowcat. His eyes had rolled back into his head and become a cat’s yellow with a veil of white over it. Jon had seemed absent, and stood unmoving and silent. _Is he all right?_ Griff had asked Jon’s henchman, the Oldtown man called Satin. _Better than all right, I imagine_ , Satin had answered. He had talked of his king with a fondness that was reverent and yet over-familiar. Griff wondered aloud how Jon Snow had lifted himself to King in the North even while half his subjects hated his policies, and the other half treated him like a favorite nephew rather than their ruler. _Jon arose by raising up his people. He gained power by giving power to us,_ Satin had told him. Griff would remember that for a long time.

Griff had broken his fast that morning with Brandon Stark over a game of Cyvasse, thinking the young lord would appreciate getting a game in before the set was packed away along with his other things. The trueborn Lord of Winterfell could not walk on his own feet, but he could see an enemy’s movements with a third eye. It was he who pointed out that the army of the dead was waiting for it to grow colder. That same eye had seen Connington alive in Oldtown in the present, and drunk at their manse on the Rhoyne in the past. _He felt so terrible, he quit the drink that very day,_ Bran had told Griff the first time they played together. Griff vaguely remembered the incident, for he was very young – maybe five years old. He had been very hungry, and Connington was “sleeping” too long after too much wine at breakfast. There was a wheel of cheese on a pedestal in the kitchen, but he could not reach it, so he had placed a pot upside down on the floor, then piled a couple of old books on top of it. Upon that, he had stood in an effort to reach the cheese, holding a knife to cut it and fill his empty belly. However, the knife was clumsy in his little hands, and the books were slippery. He remembered the bandage, and the scar on his wrist remained to this day, but he did not remember the cut – perhaps he had blotted the memory out. All he knew was, after the event with the cheese knife, Connington never “overslept” again. There was no way Bran could have known that. Griff was so dazed after leaving Bran’s solar that he hadn’t even reacted when a Northman, hauling stone through the courtyard, spat in his path.

The Sept of Winterfell had been thoroughly desecrated, the walls burned and the granite statues of the Seven broken to pieces. The first time Griff had gone to examine it with Selmy, he found Princess Arya’s begging brother friend shoveling ash and charred bits of wood into a wheel barrow. When the brother had turned, Selmy had identified him immediately as Ser Sandor Clegane, brother of the man who had murdered Griff’s mother and sister. Just like Selmy, Clegane had abandoned the service of Joffrey Baratheon, only he had done it voluntarily. His first words to Griff had been to beg forgiveness on behalf of House Clegane. Griff had granted it, in exchange for the promise that Sandor would restore Winterfell’s Sept as much as possible to undo the sacrilege of Lord Bolton’s men.

Indeed, the Hound had done good work, considering what he had available. He had stuck the images of the gods back together with pitch as well as could be expected, though the result was a bit disturbing. The Crone’s fingers were gone, and she held her lantern with a stub of a granite hand. The Father had neither nose nor lips, and the Mother, whose whole head had broken in two, wore a smile that extended all the way around her face to the back of her head. The seven-cornered wooden structure the Hound had built was like the skeleton of a real sept, and didn’t provide much in the way of privacy, but Griff supposed that in the spring they would plant ivy and wisteria and the greenery would serve as walls – if spring ever came. Griff knelt before the Mother and asked to help them care for young Bran on the journey. He asked the Crone for wisdom in his negotiations with King Jon. He asked the Warrior to help Jon defend the North until he could help them with these strange foes. When he stood, he was startled to see Princess Sansa standing at the entrance of the Sept, watching him quietly.

“I’m sorry, your grace…I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said. Her heavy samite gown was Tully blue today, scales of velvet sewn over the bodice in alternating layers. Her cloak was Stark grey and lined with fox fur. In the sunshine that poured down, her hair shone like polished copper. She gave off the air of a queen, her gloved hands clasped before her.

“That’s quite all right, my lady…I’ll leave you to your prayers.”

“No need,” she said. “I was only looking for Brother Clegane. I don’t pray – neither to the Old Gods nor the New, your grace…not anymore.”

That made Griff sad. “That’s a shame, princess. It doesn’t sound as if now is a time to lose faith.”

“I have to settle for faith in my king. Both of them.”

That was the closest anyone in this place had come to acknowledging he was their king. Griff walked toward Sansa. “One can only have one king, my lady. If it’s freedom from tyranny you want, I can promise you that, but I can’t give the North freedom from my rule. Do you understand?”

“I understand that I love my family, and I understand that Jon doesn’t really want the North free, he wants the North safe and fed.”

“I want that too…do you believe me?”

Sansa sighed. “I do.”

“Speak to your brother. You care about him, and you know what’s best, don’t you?”

Her blue eyes shone placidly. “Give us time, your grace. Once our wounds have healed, I think you’ll find our arms open.”

Griff smiled. He had been thinking long and hard about what he would offer the North before leaving, and still hadn’t been sure until just now. “Thank you, my lady…and thank the Brother for me when you see him.” He took her hand and kissed it. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and walked away toward the courtyard where the tents of some Freefolk and the begging brother stood. Griff noted that many were filing into the doors of the great hall, some of whom noticed him at the entrance of the Sept and either nodded, or glared at him. Griff took a deep breath, glad to see Duck and Selmy hurrying over from the gate in the dividing wall. It was comical in a way, for the wall dividing the great hall’s courtyard from the rest had been so thoroughly destroyed that the gate stood practically by itself, like a door in nothing.

They took their places at the daius along with Jon Snow and his sisters, Bran, Harrold Hardying, and Val of the Freefolk, who Jon had recently revealed was his wife. Serving women and boys poured ale and served sliced loaves of brown bread and butter. When Jon stood, his giant black raven quarking his bastard name on his shoulder, the din faded to silence. He wore the same black boiled leather jerkin and breeches he always wore, and the black cloak with the shaggy fur collar. As usual, he managed to look very fierce and very tired at the same time. One might have a hard time believing he was actually younger than Griff.

“Lords and ladies of the North,” Jon said. “Freefolk, and our guests from the Vale. Our friend, Prince Aegon Targaryen returns to Dragonstone this day…” The crowd buzzed a little, in a tone of “good riddance” mixed with curiosity, which Jon seemed to sense. “…by way of farewell, I want to thank Griff for his generosity and understanding. May the bad blood between our houses give way to a productive peace. I have agreed, after much consideration, to allow my brother prince Brandon Stark, to accompany prince Aegon…”

The hall erupted momentarily, but Jon held up his hands and raised his voice. “It is done,” he said. “It was my own choice, and what I believe is best for the North.” He stood before Griff then. “Let this be a token of trust between us.” His look said, _if my brother is harmed, I will tear you apart_. Griff nodded.

Jon continued, “As a token of their friendship, the Freefolk will send along with you two barrels of the ale they have brewed here at the castle…”

“We know you like it,” said a woman called “Witch-Eye,” from among the gathering of Wildlings, “Saw you drinking your fill more than once!”

The hall burst into laughter, which Griff found himself joining. He rose and went to Jon, shaking his hand. “I am grateful…though a good ale needs a name…any thoughts?”

Voices leapt up from among the Wildlings and the Northmen. _Horn-Blower! Elk-Skinner! Giant’s Piss!_ With each suggestion, the laughter roared louder, until Griff heard _Shadowcat!_

“That…” Griff said. “Shadowcat. That’s the one.” He eyed Jon Snow, who smiled that smile that could spread warmth through the coldest of rooms. Then the group became serious as Jon sat, patting his big bird on its shiny head. Griff walked to the center of the daius, suddenly nervous, but then he caught princess Sansa’s eye, and she smiled too.

“People of the North and the Vale,” he said. “Though I regret I couldn’t gain your fealty these past weeks, I will suspend this concern – at least until the threat beyond the Wall is addressed. To that end, I will forthwith begin mining the obsidian on top of which sits the Dragonmont, so that you may forge weapons from it. Any resources or men needed I will provide for you, and my ships will deliver it wherever it is needed.”[1]

For a moment, Jon Snow looked less beleaguered. He rose and thanked Griff, his raven repeating, _thank you, thank you_ , after him.

“You have my solemn pledge as well that prince Bran will be treated not only as a subject but as a brother and a friend. Furthermore, as soon as I am married, I will handle negotiations with the Lannister princess for obtaining the Wildfire, so that you may concentrate your efforts on the rebuilding of this stronghold. If the darkness is coming for us, we’ll face it together…” Griff turned to the Northern lords then: Glover, Manderly, Mormont, and all. “And when the Great War is over, perhaps you’ll remember that I chose to help…”[2]

Judging from their looks, he expected not.

Chapter 2: Daenerys

Dany adored the sea, and wished her ladies and her bloodriders liked it better. She supposed this voyage might be helpful in preparing for the eventual journey to the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn’t a long sail from their port at the Orange Shore to Lys, and they would never be very far from land during Dany’s tour. This expedition from Lys to Tyrosh to Myr served the purpose of displaying the prowess of her fleet, negotiating with the archons for their slaves’ freedom, and helping determine who to install as ruler when Dany finally sailed West. The slaves had risen up in all the Free Cities, and with the support of Dany’s dragons, had forced the current leadership to the table. The circuit would end in Pentos, where Dany would treat with Stannis Baratheon, though what the usurper’s younger brother wanted in exchange for his allegiance wasn’t completely clear.

Dany stood at the ship’s prow in a gown of green velvet quilted to look like dragon scales and trimmed with gold thread, and a cloak of golden silk lined with white rabbit fur. Her headdress was of stiffened gold lace, gold-plated beading and tassels of gold silk. Below deck was a massive chest full of Shyrli’s designs: six gowns in silver, white and smoke gray, a newly made set of finger jewelry of silver embedded with fiery opals, and even a headdress shaped from melted glass to look like a crown of flames, as in the Hightower sigil. During their stay in Lys, they would be lodging in the Manse of Tregar Ormollen, to whom the Lady Lynesse Hightower was concubine. Lynesse had been Ser Jorah Mormont’s first wife, and had broken his heart. Apparently, she wanted someone who could provide the luxuries she was used to when she lived in the Hightower of Oldtown, and as Tregar’s chief concubine, she held dominion in the household, even over his wife. Jorah had objected of course, but Dany felt it was important to take advantage of whatever connection they had, as negotiations with Lys were much more fragile than with Tyrosh and Myr.

She watched Ser Jorah fishing over the side of the ship with her Kos Rakharo and Aggo, who were making a good effort to get accustomed to the “poison water.” Dany for one loved the smell of salt and the misty breeze blowing over the waves, as well as the gentle thrumming noise of the ship’s hull peeling through the water. The only thing she missed about the land was riding her horse, Silver, who was sleeping below. Riding her dragon Drogon always made her feel powerful, but riding her silver mare made her feel like the girl she had never gotten to be. With the wind in her face, she would daydream that she was the Great Stallion, her sun and stars beside her in the Night Lands, riding forever with their ever-expanding khalasar behind them. It was strange – her memories of Khal Drogo were fond and whimsical, and yet she knew that much of that time she had been unhappy. She wondered how she would remember the formation of her Eastern kingdom after she had left it. Once she let it go, would the terrors and humiliations give way to the joys in her memory?

They made port when the sun was high in the sky, shining over the island that was lush with flowering fruit trees and swaying palms, and lined with long beaches of bright white sand. The people were as beautiful as the landscape, and three out of four of them were slaves – mostly bed slaves. Lys was renowned for it, and that made these negotiations tenuous. Dany hoped the magister would accept similar terms to which she had given the triarch of Volantis. She would pay the slaves a percentage of their procurer’s profits for one year, and then those who for whatever reason wished to remain slaves afterward could do so on a yearly contractual basis. However, the labor of bed slaves was not like other labor. The slavers of Lys bred beauty by forcing the most beautiful slaves to mate like studs and broodmares, and though she supposed it wasn’t far from Lords forcing their daughters to marry into noble families, Dany hoped to end that practice. Further, she would insist that slaves could refuse any client who meant them physical harm. Certainly some were willing to fulfill the desires of sadists, but not as many as were forced to do so. All of this would cut into profits for the slavers at these brothels – a cut that other slavers did not necessarily suffer – though it also meant Dany would have to pay out less.

While most of her host stayed on the ships in port, Dany rode to the Ormollen manse accompanied by her ladies Missandei and Shyrli, her shipmaster (and secret husband) Victarion Greyjoy and his priest Moqorro, and Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied along with a hundred of his men, who would remained garrisoned on the estate. Dany felt it was somehow poetic that a garrison of eunuchs were to take a city state known for pillow houses, though Worm’s soldiers actually did sometimes frequent brothels, in search of motherly affection or a soothing touch. Sex work wasn’t all about cocks, it seemed.

At the manse, a magnificent structure of pink brick with a terra cotta tile roof, they were greeted by Tregar and his wives, who stood beside a fountain with a statue of the Weeping Lady of Lys in its center. Her gushing tears fed the fountain with clear water, through which waded an enormous peacock with his gorgeous tail feathers proudly fanned behind him. Tregar’s wife was older than his concubines by far, with snow-white curly hair and pale eyes laden with bags. Lynesse was the most beautiful of the women, of which there were four in total. She was tiny but wore a proud look. One of the women appeared as if she might be Dothraki, with almond-shaped brown eyes and copper skin, and the other seemed very young, almost as young as Dany was when she was sold to Drogo. Her green eyes looked quite old, however, as they sized Dany up beneath a crown of soft brown curls. Tregar was polite and distinguished, with wavy grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard, but he reminded Dany a little of the slavers she’d known in Mereen: the same arrogance, the same thinly-veiled contempt toward anyone he saw as beneath him.

Dany had introduced Victarion as her naval general, but was pleased to see he was given a room adjoining hers. She was also glad and surprised to hear Lynesse ask after Jorah, without a hint of resentment in her voice. Lord Ormollen was also hosting Ser Humfrey Hightower, Lynesse’s brother, who was there to ask for sellsails in order to fight Euron Greyjoy. Obviously, the knight looked with suspicion upon Victarion, but that evening at dinner, her captain put to bed any notions that he was loyal, or even friendly, to his brother. Lynesse wore her gifts to supper, including the silver silken gown with the slits down each leg, and flames of red and gold beading sewn at the breast. She twirled to show it off before they sat down to eat, and it occurred to Dany how very much they looked alike. With the headdress on, one would struggle to tell who was which from a distance. Lynesse’s hair was only slightly darker blonde, and she let it fall down around her shoulders, while Dany’s was still short enough to tuck up into her headdress entirely. Before sitting down to eat, they circled each other, examining the similarities for several seconds before they burst out laughing.

They feasted upon a huge veranda with a view of the sea over which the early moon glowed golden like a crystal glass of arbor wine. The kitchen served up several bowls of fruit: slices of papaya and honeydew, juicy rings of pineapple, chunks of banana and the best mango Dany had ever tasted. There were silver platters piled high with grilled octopus in a sweet spicy sauce and jumbo shrimp broiled in pepper and butter. Several chickens were roasted on an outdoor spit, marinated in olive oil mixed with hot peppers, cloves, cinnamon, garlic, onion, molasses, ginger and salt. The meat fell away from the bone when plated, and they ate it with a rich bread made with flour and coconut milk, washing it down with a tart-tasting beer brewed with grapefruit peels. For dessert, there was a dense cinnamon cake soaked in rum and some crispy biscuits made from singed sugar, dried mango and coconut shavings.

“This is fabulous work…I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Lynesse gushed, running a hand down the sleeve of her gown. The table conversation had been very dark to that point. However, with Lynesse, everything was _fabulous_ : the gowns, the mangos, the moonlight. “I _must_ have more. I _must_ have a headdress for each day of the week.”

Dany was pushing a bit of tentacle around on her plate. She usually loved octopus, but she couldn’t help but observe that this dish looked a lot like one of her husband’s hands. That, and the horrors Ser Humfrey had told them about Euron’s activities in Westeros, had severely weakened her appetite.

“Indeed, darling – you shall have whatever you like,” Tregar said. “How much for your girl here, your grace. Name any price.”

_My girl is sitting right here you ale-drenched ass._ Dany stabbed her fork into her octopus, imagining it was Tregar’s hand, but spoke sweetly. “Shyrli, my personal stylist, is not for sale. She is free to come and go as she wishes.” She turned to Shyrli, who looked quite disinterested. “My lady, would you prefer to work for Lord Ormollen?”

“No Khaleesi I would not.”

Dany enjoyed Tregar’s affronted look. Lynesse didn’t seem the least affected. Tregar’s wife, whose name was Safi, spoke up then in her tiny voice. “What about taking some of your pieces to market, my dear? My old friend has this little shop…”

Lynesse rolled her eyes. “You don’t mean that pathetic excuse for a stall in the East market…the one with a chipped cup and moth-eaten shawl out front.”

“Well, she doesn’t put anything people would want to buy in the window or she’d have to keep replacing it!”[3]

Dany looked at Victarion, who had eaten almost nothing. A slice of cake sat in front of him untouched on the plate, and he stared at it as if it had come alive and begun scolding him. His eyes were more bloodshot than ever, and the skin beneath one of them twitched in rhythm with the pitch of their voices. He had been suffering from some ailment these past several weeks, and Ser Humfrey’s news obviously hadn’t helped his mood. Euron had taken over Oldtown, populating it with a strange army of amphibious ichthyoid men. Lord Leyton Hightower and his daughter Lady Melora were trapped in the great Tower, keeping it standing through some magic that Humfrey couldn’t name. One of Euron’s spells had turned numerous citizens into undead demons who drank blood, and another drove men catatonic with madness or induced them to vomit in streams or to speak gibberish. He could change the weather in an area of two miles square at any time, using sudden tornadoes to thwart any army who approached by land. Humfrey also claimed Euron possessed a giant conch horn with which it was said he could control some sea monster in Iron Man’s Bay. Worse still, he was kidnapping smallfolk from both the Reach and the Westerlands and keeping them or selling them as slaves wherever Victarion’s fleet was not present, including Lys. Dany had no choice but to tell him about the Others and the army of wights she had seen, and the color drained from his already pale face.

They hadn’t even gotten around to a conversation about slavery in Lys, and Dany had hoped to practice her arguments on Tregar, whose income surely depended on the pillow houses in one way or another. Tregar and Lynesse either didn’t believe the stories of what was happening in the Seven Kingdoms, or it didn’t matter to them. Here they were, on their lovely little island, living a life of luxury on the backs of unpaid workers. The only monsters they knew about were Dany’s dragons – coming to threaten their free access to the bodies of whomever they wished to use. Dany wondered, did they even know why the Weeping Lady wept?

“You must see the Perfumed Garden while you’re here,” Tregar was saying. “It is the pride of Lys.”

“Perhaps,” Dany said. “But were I to partake of a slave in my bed, it would be my shame, not my pride.” She recalled a time when she and her lady Irri had been intimate, until Dany realized Irri was obligating herself. As much as her lady’s touch had comforted her, she had to put it to an end. Irri’s body was her own and Ko Rakharo’s, and that was that.

Tregar’s face darkened at her comment. “So you are determined in your purpose to end this island’s livelihood? To its long, honored tradition? I suppose when you have destroyed our culture, you will pat yourself on the back in your morally upright pursuit.”

“I will end the stealing of the livelihoods of these bed workers by the owners, that’s all. It has nothing to do with culture, and certainly nothing to do with morals…were the one I took into my bed able to keep my money for himself, I should enjoy his company very much.”

Lynesse giggled lasciviously and winked repeatedly. “Is that so…well! We shall see if we can find a friend for you, your grace. Pat on the back indeed…”

Tregar frowned. “Lynesse, darling, I don’t think…”

“Sorry…”

“That’s all right.”

“I was talking to the wine. Sorry wine,”[4] Lynesse said and emptied her cup. “You shut up, Tregar. No one’s talking to you…”

Victarion rose suddenly and begged to be excused, and Dany realized the comments about the bed slave may have upset him. It seemed to be the cue for dinner to end, but Dany did not retire to her chambers without promising Ser Humfrey that the Storm Crows would receive a raven telling them to sail around Dorne and attack Euron’s fleet from the south. To her credit, Lynesse swore she could convince Tregar to fund more ships. However, Dany realized that if what Humfrey said was true, it was her dragons that the Seven Kingdoms needed…and now.

Chapter 3: Myrcella

Myrcella sat upright on the Iron Throne, trying as hard as she could, imagining Septa Edina’s copy of _The_ _Seven-Pointed Star_ was still on top of her head. _Shoulders back, chin up and out_ , she told herself. At least her gown was queenly: pale pink samite embellished with onyx beading and gold silk thread. Her crown of gold antlers was studded with rose quartz and rubies. Mother had let her grow her hair out a bit to cover up her ugly ear, and at first, she thought it looked like a boyish mop, but now she had begun to like it. Her gown’s sleeves were a thick brocade, so she could avoid another accident with the throne. It seemed that no matter how many times Mother yelled at her, when one cut healed, another appeared. _Have some grace won’t you…don’t just flap your arms all over the place like a pigeon,_ Mother scolded. _When did you get so clumsy?_

Today was important. They had this one chance to get the lords of the court on their side. It had been difficult to bring them together at the Red Keep, which had become a lonely place indeed. Myrcella had prayed and prayed over it, in hopes the call to arms would go her way. If it didn’t, she was as good as married to Euron Greyjoy, who frightened her more than almost anything. She had frightened herself the few times she had been around him. She had felt like a different girl – a stranger to herself.

“My dear subjects, the facts of the matter are egregious,” Myrcella said, not quite loud enough. She heard Mother’s footsteps behind her, and the image of the stickpin leapt into her mind. Mother knew just how to do it so that no one saw. They would only hear her voice suddenly jump an octave. That pin hurt worse than the swords jutting out of that ugly throne – but didn’t leave any marks. Myrcella instantly raised her voice to the appropriate pitch.

“Jon Snow, the Black Bastard of the Wall, my lords, is an enemy of the realm. In violation of his sacred vows, he plotted with Wildling raiders, and after interfering with the selection of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, proceeded to use his position to dismantle that great institution, who have protected the realm from invasion for a thousand years. Instead of doing his sworn duty, Jon Snow brought the danger over the Wall, allowing insurgent forces to assume command. When loyal members of the Night’s Watch attempted to stop this treachery, Jon Snow murdered them, his own brothers, then proceeded to bring Wildling raiders to Winterfell where he murdered the lawful warden and retook the North in rebellion against the crown. In defiance of our laws, he has named himself, a bastard with no rights, King in the North. He has allied with Stannis Baratheon, who destroyed the Sept of Baelor in reverence to a demon god. He harbors his half-sister, the notorious Arya Stark, identified as Mercy of King’s Landing, who murdered and mutilated many of our city guards…”

She paused – a bit too long. She hadn’t lost her place – she and Mother had rehearsed this far too many times. She had even dreamt of this speech the previous night. However, when it came to the part about Arya, it came on suddenly – the tilt of her head to the left with that little jerk, her shoulder jumping up to meet it. Ever since she had come home to the Keep, these spasms had plagued her. The slightest stress brought it on. It enraged Mother, but the more Cersei seethed, the worse it got. She and Qyburn had begun to force Myrcella to take small doses of milk of the poppy to quell the tics, but it didn’t always work. The truth Myrcella could never tell was that she didn’t believe this story about Arya. Sansa’s little sister had been dirty and foul-mouthed, but she wasn’t cruel…not as Myrcella remembered. Plus, there had been more killings in the city recently, and how could Arya have done it if she was at Winterfell? Another spasm pulled her head to the side, and Myrcella waited to feel the pin prick. Instead, Mother took over where she had left off.

“Make no mistake, my lords and ladies,” she said, stepping forward to stand beside Myrcella. “This threat comes not only from the North. To the West, the Red Brotherhood has infiltrated the Riverlands and killed the rightful wardens, murdering and burning women and children. The Starks and the Brotherhood, driven by vengeance, malice and insanity, will not stop their campaign of death. But the threat from the South and the East is greater still….”

This was important, and it needed to come from Myrcella. Euron had made such a mess of things. The only chance they had, Mother said, was to make their enemies look worse than he was. _You, my love, are above suspicion for these spiteful lords, and if you could just stop twitching and behave like a queen_ …Myrcella stood up with as much grace as she could muster. With her hands clasped before her, she took two steps down the stairs from the throne. The tic had caused her to blush, she could feel it – but that was all right. It would look like she was passionate, and that was important to convey.

“You remember the Mad King,” she said at last. “You remember the horrors he inflicted upon his people. The Mad King’s daughter is no different. In the East, her brutality is already legendary. She has burned her way through Essos, destroying the people’s way of life and desecrating their culture. She has crucified hundreds of noblemen and fed them to her dragons. She bathes in the blood of maidens and children. She enlists bloodthirsty savages and mindless eunuchs to her cause. Furthermore, the imposter claiming to be Rhaegar’s son has sworn to marry with her, and when Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons cross the Narrow Sea, the two of them will attempt to take the Iron Throne from your rightful queen. Together they will lay our cities to waste, destroy your castles and your holdfasts, burn your villages to the ground, rape and enslave your women, and butcher your children without a second thought.”

Her voice echoed in the quiet of the throne room, reverberating off its high ceilings. She knew Mother had hoped for a greater showing. As she spoke, Myrcella took note of the names of the lords she could identify. Of course Lord Merryweather and Aurane Waters were there, and Lord Rykker of Duskendale and Lord Ronnet Connington. They could always be counted on. Of her own family’s bannermen there were also the Lords Damon Marbrand, Tytos Brax, Regenard Estren, Robin Moreland, Lewys Lydden, and Philip Plumm. Others were landed knights of the Westerlands, and there were also some men of the Reach. Myrcella was surprised and pleased to see Ellaria Sand there with her daughter Loreza, though she knew Mother wouldn’t be happy to see them. They looked so beautiful in bright orange gowns trimmed with shiny gold silk – Myrcella missed wearing those gowns…so light and loose on her skin. She had given them the tiniest smile when Mother wasn’t looking, and she knew they saw, because Loreza winked and smiled back, and Ellaria blew her a little kiss.

“It is my solemn duty to protect the people, and I will,” Myrcella continued. “But I am in need of your help, my lords. We must stand together – all of us[5], if we hope to stop the forces of evil descending upon us.”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” said Lord Marbrand. “But must we stand together with the likes of Euron Greyjoy? If we speak of evil forces, one might say he should be included in that designation…”

Marbrand wore a flame-orange cloak trimmed with black fur. He was very old, but wise. Myrcella had been prepared for his objections, because his seat of Ashemark was very near where Euron had been making trouble.

“I realize that some of Lord Greyjoy’s methods may seem unsavory,” Myrcella said. “But a danger such as the one we face requires severe measures. The rebel queen has three full-grown dragons. Euron has the means by which we might realistically confront them. As for the Black Bastard, the crown has enlisted a fleet of newly-built ships, led by our courageous captain Waters, to sail north and retake Winterfell, after which the Wall will be restored to the Night’s Watch as it should be. The First Order is currently at work in the Riverlands to disband the Brotherhood, and Euron’s forces are protecting the Westerlands and the Reach from invasion by the imposter prince. We may be in a position to scale back Euron’s participation…if our bannermen are willing to heed this call.”

“Your grace,” said Lord Tytos Brax, dressed in grey doublet slashed with silver, “What of the royal marriage? Forgive my concern, but if Euron were to wed your grace…”

“That betrothal is not yet solidified,” Myrcella broke the old lord off tightly, her voice suddenly strained. She didn’t like to think about it too much, and she didn’t want Mother thinking about it. The day before, Mother had discovered Myrcella’s latest letter to Trystane Martell, her true love. She had been very careful to conceal her writing to him, even if she couldn’t hide the fact that she still loved him with all her heart. Somehow, Mother had gotten hold of the key to her desk. Myrcella suspected her handmaiden, Bernadette, and was no longer speaking to her. Mother stepped forward as soon as the marriage was mentioned. She knew better than to let Myrcella talk about it. She would surely begin to twitch again, worse than ever.

“A marriage to Euron may be necessary to secure the safety of the Kingdoms, my lord,” Mother said in what was surely her most seductive voice. “Other candidates may be entertained if these threats are appropriately addressed in time, as will the lordships needed to fill what our enemies have emptied. Our continued consideration depends upon your willingness to step up to our cause…”

Myrcella looked again for Ellaria in the crowd, and caught a sympathetic look from her. Perhaps she understood how terribly Myrcella missed Trystane, having lost her beloved Oberyn so suddenly. Sometimes Myrcella cried herself to sleep about it – and now she couldn’t even write to him. After the letter had been found, Mother had burned all of her paper, her ink and her quills. Worse than that, she had hauled in poor Joy, the ironically-named child who was Myrcella’s whipping girl. Mother had done the beating herself with a leather riding strap while Myrcella sat on her bed and cried and cried, begging her to stop. The more she cried, the harder Mother swung, until her arms were too tired, and then she called in that horrid Ser Kettleblack. Myrcella had gasped and swallowed and forced herself to stop sobbing before he arrived, but then she began to twitch and spasm uncontrollably. She was learning to control her tears, but this tic just would not go away. Milk of the poppy worked a little, but then she got terrible headaches when it wore off.

Ser Kettleblack had beaten Joy until she was unconscious, but Myrcella still kept twitching, shoulder jumping, head tilting, even when the poor little girl’s limp body was carried out. Mother had just stood with her arms crossed, so angry that her face actually looked ugly, though Myrcella would never dare say that. Bernadette scrubbed the blood from the floor and avoided catching Myrcella’s eye – that was how she knew she was the one who blabbed. _Stop that bloody twitching, I said…right now!_ Mother hissed at her, but Myrcella had stared right past her, concentrating on not crying, and imagining a land far south, where golden dunes turned pink in the sunset and the sands rippled in the wind.

Chapter 4: Daenerys

In her chambers, Dany changed into her periwinkle blue silk nightgown – a light-as-air, heavenly soft thing that hugged her curves at the top and floated around her legs at the bottom – and left Shyrli and Missandei in bed, chuckling together at a dirty picture book that had been left in the room. She took a new bottle of the red wine they had taken from Volantis, and looked carefully down both ends of the hall before tiptoeing to Victarion’s chamber right next door. Her husband sat at the edge of his bed with his shirt off, looking sour. He continued to lose weight, and his ribs were more visible than ever. Dany did not wish to have a serious conversation – she only hoped to help him feel strong. Tomorrow he needed to be the fearsome kraken, the iron victor, ruler of the sea.

“My love,” she said. “I hope you don’t think I meant what I said about the bed worker at dinner…and I didn’t mean to speak for you. Would you like to see the Perfumed Garden?”

“Your perfumed garden is the only one I’m interested in…” he said, and even smiled a little. He pulled her onto his lap. “Let’s stay here, cockle shell. Fuck the Seven Kingdoms. They are lost.”

“Don’t say that…anyway I thought you wanted to pick up and sail for Westeros tomorrow.”

“That was before all this talk of deep ones and Others and sea monsters. Spells? This is folly. I say we call forth the dragons and take this island for ourselves. Bake Tregar and his bitch wives like so many clams. Take this manse, then burn every noble left.” He kissed her neck, breasts, and shoulders with every pause. “It can be just you and me and a million whores.”

“Male whores too?”

“Sure, they can scrub our floors and cook our meals.”

“Good…keep thinking like that. Let them know you’d kill them all in a blink. It will help me get what I want.”

“You think I’m joking…I’m not.”

“Don’t, my sweet…”

“Don’t tell me don’t…”

There was a knock at the door then – strange and soft. Three very slow taps. Victarion cursed, _what now_ … _bloody Moqorro_ …But before he could go to the door, it opened itself as if by magic. The woman who walked in then – almost glided – was the most beautiful woman Dany had ever seen, wearing a robe of red satin. Her hair was silver as Dany’s, but it was shiny as satin and hung down to her waist, whereas Dany’s just barely met her shoulders. Her creamy skin was just slightly blushed at the cheeks, and her lips were almost perfectly heart-shaped. Upon closer inspection, Dany saw that one of her eyes was blue like the twilight sky, and the other was a lurid green. The door closed by itself behind her.

Victarion bent to whisper in Dany’s ear. “When did you arrange this, cockle shell?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” Dany whispered back – though there was something familiar about her. “Who are you, my lady? Did Lady Lynesse send you?”

“The Lord sent me, my queen. I came to pray with you and your captain.”

The voice was vaguely familiar as well. “I just came in to see if Lord Greyjoy could open a bottle of wine for me,” Dany said awkwardly. “What is your name, my lady, if I may ask?”

“Call me Arshei…”

The woman untied the robe and let it fall to her feet, revealing a shapely body: long legs, soft belly, round and firm breasts, a mound of silver pubic hair where her silky smooth thighs met. As she walked toward Dany and Victarion, she recited, “ _Here takes place between the two actors wrestling, intertwining, an animated conflict between the lower parts of two bellies….”_

She reached behind Dany’s neck to untie the straps of Dany’s nightie and pull it down, showing no qualms about the fact that Victarion still stood there with his mouth hanging open. _“The man is at work with his pestle, while the woman seconds him…”_

Dany shimmied out of her gown entirely and then helped Arshei untie Victarion’s breeches and boots and pull them off. She began first to kiss Dany all over, the prayer narrating each stop her lips made, while Victarion stood behind and caressed Arshei’s hips, winding his tentacle in her long hair. “ _The kiss on the mouth, on the two cheeks, upon the neck, as well as the sucking of lips, are gifts from the Lord. The Lord also embellished her chest with breasts, has given_ _brilliant_ _color to her cheeks. He has gifted her with eyes that inspire love, and with eyelashes like polished blades._ _He has furnished her with rounded belly and a beautiful navel and with the majestic buttocks, and all these wonders are borne up by the thighs._ ”

She kissed and licked every body part she mentioned, kneeling to reach the lower areas, and turning Dany around so she could rub each of her cheeks in a gentle swirling motion. Then she took Victarion’s hand and kissed it before bringing it between Dany’s legs. _“It is between these that the Lord has placed the arena that resembles the head of a lion. How many men’s deaths lie at her door? The Lord has furnished this arena with a mouth, a tongue, two lips…it is like the hoof print of a gazelle in the sands of a desert…”_

Victarion began rubbing Dany in the perfect place, making her arch her back with pleasure. Arshei then stood, and began to stroke Victarion’s huge broad chest and shoulders, kissing and caressing his nipples as she spoke her prayer. _“The Lord of Light has plunged woman into a sea of splendors, of voluptuousness, and of delights…let us praise and exalt him who has created woman and her beauty, with her appetizing flesh…”_

Arshei turned and kissed Dany deeply, whispering the words into her mouth, while she massaged Victarion’s now fully erect manhood. “ _The Lord has bestowed upon her an empire of seduction…all men, weak or strong, are subjected to defeat by the love of woman. The state of humility and pain in which are the hearts of those separated from their loves, they are oppressed with a feeling of servitude, of contempt, of misery._ ”

Arshei squeezed and fondled Dany’s breasts, pinching the nipples between her fingers as Victarion’s fingers continued to work at her vulva, making Dany moan quietly. _“I, servant of the Lord, am thankful to him that no one can help falling in love, that no one can escape the desire to possess them, neither by change, nor flight, nor separation_ …[6]

Arshei stepped between Dany and Victarion, and replaced Victarion’s hand between Dany’s legs with her own, pulling her body against hers and plunging her tongue into her mouth. She gently pushed Dany onto the bed and crawled on top of her, sliding one leg between Dany’s so that her thigh rubbed against her wetness. Dany heard Victarion groan as he entered Arshei from behind, and she took one of Arshei’s breasts in her hand and began to squeeze and cup it. It felt delightful. There was something so perfect about the feel of a breast, Dany found. She often would clutch her own breasts at night – but feeling someone else’s was so much better. Dany pulled herself up so that Arshei’s face was between her legs, and sighed when she felt her tongue going to work. She felt her cares begin to fade to a corner in the back of her mind, her pelvis undulating in rhythm with Arshei’s licking and probing.

Then Arshei rolled over and pulled herself up to Dany’s level, kissing her again before turning to take Victarion’s member into her mouth. As she sucked noisily, she weaved her hand into Dany’s hair, grasped a handful of it and pulled. Then it was Dany whose face was between Arshei’s legs. The smell and taste of the soft pink flesh reminded her of the coconut bread they had been eating, mixed with orchid and almond oil. The sound of Arshei slurping halted, and was replaced by a beautiful voice singing, _through the warmest cord of care, your love was sent to me, I’m not sure what to do with it, or where to put it…_ Dany felt Victarion’s tentacle wrap around her waist, and his cock slide into her from behind. He entered her more deeply than usual, and like a noiseless explosion, orgasm wracked her entire body. She felt Arshei’s little “lion” expanding and melting against her tongue and heard her cries. Victarion’s mighty hips bucked hard against her behind, and he too moaned loudly. Sleep overtook Dany, and she drifted off with Victarion’s arms wrapped around her, her head on Arshei’s breasts that rose and fell as she sang softly: _there lies my passion, there lies my love, I’ll hide it under a blanket, lull it to sleep… **[7]**_

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice,” HBO, 2017.

[2] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 7: “The Dragon and the Wolf,” HBO, 2017.

[3] Saunders, Jennifer and Dawn French. _Absolutely Fabulous,_ Season 2, Episode 4: “Poor,” BBC, 1994.

[4] Kristen Wiig as Kathie Lee Gifford on _Saturday Night Live_.

[5] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 2: “Stormborn,” HBO, 2017.

[6] Umar Ibn Muhammad Nafzawi. _The Perfumed Garden_. 15th Century. [wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Perfumed_Garden](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Perfumed_Garden)

[7] Bjork, “Hidden Place,” _Vespertine_ , Elektra, 2004.


	2. 2.4 cont.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This continuation of Book Two: Rise of Daenerys Part Four is even more a one-handed read! But first, Asha wins a battle against Dany's enemies, scoring an incredible artifact and a very important hostage. A vision in the flames shows Dany an ugly truth about slavery in Lys, urging her to action. Cersei sends a gift of wildfire up north, and is working on several skin regimens...including a facial courtesy of Aurane Waters.

Chapter 5: Ash

Asha took two great bounding steps and leapt. She swung the axe two-handed and sunk its blade into the Ghiscari’s skull with a satisfying crunch. They went down together on the deck of the cog, him in the throes of death, her splashed with his blood and the blood of at least two dozen other Harpy Eggs. When she got to her feet again, she worked the axe out of her enemy’s brain, ready to wield it again, but when she looked around her, she saw the battle was over. In all directions, smoke billowed from masts, and bodies bobbed in the freezing water of the Shivering Sea – most of which were not her own men’s. Rodrik Harlaw trotted out of the cabin toward her, loaded with bags full of their plunder. When Asha saw him, she raised the axe above her head and shouted _Victory_ , only then noticing a sharp pain in the side of her face. Rodrik’s smile faded, and he dropped both bags of loot on the deck. Asha touched her cheek and felt a painful wetness.

“Asha, you’re cut,” Rodrik said, and begin ripping the sleeve of his shirt.

“Is it bad?” Asha asked.

“It appears to be quite severe, yes.”

“What does it look like?” Asha felt with her fingers, but she could get no sense of how big the cut was. It was either nothing or a gash the length of the Trident.

“You’ve glanced your own mouth I suppose,” said Rodrik.

“So?”

Rodrik bunched up the strip of torn sleeve and pressed it against her face. “Picture another of the same right next to it…” [1]

Later, as Asha was being stitched by the Norvosi girl, Breonna, she tried not to weep when she learned that Qarl the Maid had been killed. He had been her lover for some time back on the Iron Islands, and she wished they had parted better. The rum her ladies had given her to numb the pain wasn’t making it easy to avoid crying, but it wouldn’t do to let salty tears get into that wound. She imagined what she would do to the captain they captured to help stall her grief. The important thing was that they had won. The first wave of Harpy Eggs, armed to sack Mereen, had been stopped miles outside the city walls, and soon Daenerys Targaryen would know it. Better still, they now had a map of the Caverns of Norvos – _the_ map – that turned those caves into a series of doorways leading to almost anywhere in the world they wanted to go. Best of all, they had Mellario of Norvos.

When she, her brother Theon, and Tristifer Botley had delved into those caves, they had not expected to run into Lady Mellario of Dorne. Rumors around the ports of Norvos and Braavos spoke of Harpy Eggs, hiding out in the caverns in hopes of making a move against the Dragon Queen. As it turned out, an entire cell was nesting in those caves, funded mainly by the estranged wife of Prince Doran Martell. Tris had nearly drowned in an impossibly deep cave pool in the process of seeking out the cell – mostly Ghiscari and Yunkish slavers – before happening upon Mellario. Tris found her dressed in luxurious silks of purple, red and gold, her thick black hair piled in ornate braids upon her head. Asha and her companions had gotten soaked in mudwater and batshit, having spent only a short time in those dark chambers. How had she managed to stay so spotless? After they had killed the better part of the scum she was sponsoring, she had run from them. They pursued her into a narrow crevice, following right behind her as she squeezed through, but when they emerged on the other side, they were no longer in the caves at all. They were in a forest – and not just any forest, but the Forest of Qohor, which may as well have been a hundred miles from where they had entered the caves.

“There we are…all sewn up,” Breonna was saying. She used her tiny knife to cut the thread and then carefully tied it, her nimble brown fingers closing the loop. Then she dipped a square of soft linen in vinegar and bid Asha hold it gently against the wound.

“It isn’t so bad,” said Lauren of Lorath, whose face had gone white as foam when she first had laid eyes on the cut. “Once it’s healed, perhaps you won’t even be able to see it.”

Lauren was a sweet girl, with plump red cheeks and a thicket of tight brown curls, which she kept away from her eyes with a collection of rags dyed any number of bright colors. She had been the one to show Breonna the ropes of attending to Asha. Breonna had been Mellario’s, taken as part of the bargain along with the information about the attack on Mereen, and the map. Her father was a Summer Islander, and she had the deep brown glowing skin to show for it. She was as beautiful as her former mistress, with thick dark eyelashes and full lips. She was also skilled with herbs and poultices and other medicine, which neither Lauren, nor Ginger could manage well. Ginger was Hagen the Horn’s daughter, a gorgeous redhead who could kiss with a dagger as well as her lips. She was writing out the letters that Tris was dictating, to be sent to Daario Naharis in Mereen, and Ben Plumm in what still stood of Yunkai. A third would be sent to Daenerys Targaryen’s mansion in Volantis, and signed with the moniker _Yara Redjoy, daughter of Branrick of Westeros_.

“Come now, let’s see those bear clawings,” Breonna said.

“Don’t worry about that…it doesn’t even hurt anymore,” Asha said.

“Yet and still, my lady, I would check to see if the battle enflamed it…”

When they chased Mellario down, killed the guards who had accompanied her, and tied her hands, they thought they were in the same woods from which they had come into the caves. However, it was soon apparent that this forest was darker and denser…the trees huge as city gates and twisted with age, crawling with “Little Valyrians,” the silver lemurs with purple eyes. It was the map, they would learn from Mellario, that had allowed them to come out in the Forest of Qohor. Whoever possessed it could go to any number of places by way of the caverns: the Forest of Qohor, Mereen, Volantis, Vaes Dothrak, even the Red Keep in King’s Landing! They hadn’t needed to resort to torture or any such to get the information out of Mellario. All they’d had to do is prevent her from escaping that dark forest, which she knew very well was full of fierce and terrible creatures: tigers, wolves, giant boars and more.

“Night is about to fall, you bloody Ironborn fools,” Mellario had said. “And when it does, we’ll be torn to shreds by some beast you can be sure.”

“I suppose we ought to build a fire…the bigger the better,” Tris said in response. “You wouldn’t happen to know if these silver monkeys are good eating, my lady?”

“You’ll never catch one even if it was,” Asha had snapped at him. “My lady, if you know a way out of this place, I’m game to take it. Just tell us why, and we’ll go together.”

“Why? That’s it?” The lady Mellario had laughed then – a deep, throaty laugh.

It was her son Quentyn, of course. Asha might have known. The young prince had freed Daenerys’s dragons from where she had them chained up, in some hare-brained plan to win the queen’s hand in marriage. The green one had cooked him like a suckling pig, or so the story went. It was no use telling Mellario that it was her son’s own idiot fault. Asha supposed if she had her own son one day, she’d understand – though with the way her face looked now, that was becoming less likely by the minute. Mellario had confessed her motives with no time to spare. Their horses had been left at the initial entryway, and they had to go on foot. Asha had come away with the mark of a spotted bear across her side, and he would have made a meal of them all if Theon’s arrows had finally made their mark. Mellario had gotten them out of the forest, and into the city of Qohor, where Asha and her magic powder were well known. In Qohor, like many other cities more south, they did not call the product “Falia’s Bane.” The dope that was now selling from Qohor to Braavos faster than they could harvest it was more often called “Ash.”

Breonna’s touch on her ribs tickled. “Gods be good! Your fingers are cold,” Asha said.

“The wounds are mostly healed,” Breonna said.

“Looks like you haven’t been missing any meals, either,” said Ginger, who was blowing on a parchment to dry the ink.

“Are you calling me fat, you insolent slut?” Asha joked, and pulling down her tunic, danced over to give Ginger’s creamy white cheek a little pinch. She held the linen against her face and went to give her victory words to the men. The next stop depended on Daenerys.

Chapter 6: Daenerys

Dany awoke suddenly, and bolted upright on the bed where Victarion still snored. Arshei was gone. The woman who stood naked before her now was ancient, her belly a mass of wrinkled folds, her breasts flat and dangling like two stockings. Her face was completely covered with a mask made of black lacquer beads and brass molded to look like some cruel bird. _Quaithe!_

“What are you doing here?” Dany said under her breath.

“You have not heeded my warnings. I told you to beware of the kraken. Of the dark flame. The lion…”

“Bend over and I’ll show you where to stick your warnings! Where was your warning about the khals in the Great Grass Sea?”

“I did not wish to draw you from that destiny…”

“What destiny? Being raped and maimed? What good are your prophesies if they can’t protect me from being defiled? What worse fate could I possibly suffer?”

“Death!”

Victarion stirred somewhat, and like a flash, Quaithe disappeared out of the door. Dany hastily put her nightgown back on and ran after her. She saw the masked prophetess turn the corner at the end of the corridor and called out to her, running as fast as her bare feet could take her down the long hallway. Around the corner, the hall emptied into a wide landing with a balcony overlooking the main hall of Tregar Ormollen’s manse. Two stairways led down from either side, but Dany couldn’t see Quaithe on either stair. She seemed to have vanished into thin air. Dany leaned over the balcony and scanned the polished stone floor below. She looked at the space behind every potted palm plant and flowering bush, but the only other living thing to be seen was a little green parakeet, one of several that flitted about the manse. He was perched on the back of a velvet couch at the foot of the hall, staring sappily up at her. [2]

“Is that you Quaithe?”

It tilted its head and said, “Silly bird!”

“Yes,” Dany agreed, and with a sigh turned back to go to her room. On the way, she chanced to glance into the chamber in which the priest Moqorro had been lodged, as the door was halfway open. Moqorro was awake, sitting in a plush chair, facing the hearth with his head in one hand. The glow lit up his dark face so the red flames tattooed on his cheeks seemed alive, but Moqorro’s expression was sad and dour. Dany recalled he had said almost nothing at supper, and that his mood was lately as low as Victarion’s.

She poked her head in the door. “Moqorro?”

Moqorro rose from his chair and bowed. “Your grace…”

“Have you seen a naked old woman wearing a mask come through here?”

“No, my queen, I can’t say as I have.”

“Oh well…as you were. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“You interrupt nothing…”[3] Moqorro sat back down with a thump, as if he’d been on his feet for days. Dany entered the room and closed the door.

“Moqorro…I can’t help but notice you seem sad. Will you tell me what’s the matter? Has Lord Victarion mistreated you?”

“No…but.” He took a breath and let it out heavily. “Won’t you join me a moment, your grace?”

He stood and pulled another chair next to him, and Dany came in and sat. The room smelled of sage and lavender. The chairs were oversized for her, and her feet dangled. Moqorro pointed and nodded toward the small flames inside the hearth.

“Look into the flames, my queen, and tell me what you see,” he said.

Dany rolled her eyes. These red priests and priestesses and their obsession with fire were a little ridiculous. She feigned a belief in Rh’llor for the sake of her people, who worshipped him wholeheartedly, but to her the Lord of Light was no more real than the Seven, who had abandoned her in the Dothraki sea. “I don’t have visions as you do, my lord – you know that.”

“Indulge me, my queen. Please.”

Dany huffed and made a point of staring at the fire, pouting like a child who doesn’t want to say her prayers. “I see cinders glowing. The remains of palm fronds and wood pulp…”

“Look again…”[4]

Dany leaned forward, making a show of how carefully she was looking, but all that was there was fire – just a few weak tongues of flame. Or was that all? For a moment, Dany thought she spied a child’s face. The child may have been kin to Missandei, with golden eyes and cinnamon skin, but the face was very sad.

“Wait…what child is this I see?” Dany caught herself saying.

Suddenly the flames became rolling waves, lapping against a busy Lysene port, just like the one at which her ships were now docked. In fact, it was the _Iron Victory_ , her husband’s great longship, but it wasn’t her Unsullied or members of her council being led down the gangplank onto the pier. They were mostly ragged looking smallfolk, collared and bound, many of them women and children. The girl whose face had appeared in the flame was among them. She was very tiny – smaller and much younger than Missandei had been when Dany had taken her from her former master. She was six, perhaps seven. Dany saw Victarion hollering something as they were marched down the pier. Then she saw a heavy-set Lyseni answering, and watched as two slaves carried a heavy chest and lay it at Victarion’s feet. _But where did the little girl go?_

Dany looked around as a fog engulfed her. When she emerged from it, she was no longer at the pier, but was instead wandering a busy thoroughfare. She soon found herself standing in front of a structure not unlike a public house or pub, but she realized immediately from the smell that wafted out of it – violet perfume, almond oil and men’s seed – that it was a pillow house. A sign above the façade depicted an orchid painted blue, encircled by purple butterflies. Suddenly, a tall man with slick black hair approached her, and seized her by the arm, whispering something lewd in her ear. She shoved him and told him to fuck off, but he did not seem to recognize her as a queen. He called her a whore and spat other obscenities, attempting to pull her into an ally. Dany got ready to bite his hand, but then Moqorro appeared beside her. He glared at the man, saying nothing, and the man released Dany with a final curse before stomping away.

Dany thanked Moqorro, and asked, “What is this place?”

“It is called the Blue Orchid,” Moqorro answered. “The knowledge you seek is inside.”

Dany doubted that, but she stepped into the door of the Orchid anyway. The huge brute sitting in the front foyer didn’t seem to notice as she crept past him, nor did the monkey who sat in a cage hanging from the ceiling, looking glum. The man who had paid the chest to Victarion was there, sitting at a table and writing in a ledger. A beaded curtain rattled as she walked through it into a wide parlor, in which she could see a number of whores chatting up their clientele. One couple kissed furtively in the corner, a teenaged boy it seemed, and a red-cheeked older man. A smiling, silver-haired beauty sat on the lap of an armor-clad Ibbenese man. There was a small stage toward the back of the room, and upon it, a trio of long-legged girls danced naked to the music of a harp, waving huge fans made of ostrich and peacock feathers in rhythm with the song. The harp player caught Dany’s eye, and seemed to be singing just to her:

_… the rainbow's end, mmm, baby, it's just a den  
For those who hide, who hide their love to depths of life  
And ruin dreams that we all knew so, babe_

_And when the owls cry in the night  
And baby when the pines begin to cry  
Oh baby, baby, how do you feel?  
If the river runs dry, baby, how do you feel… **[5]**_

Dany looked down at her hand to see a small black key in it. Moqorro’s voice whispered, _number four_ in her ear. She walked to the staircase on the west side of the room. The way was lit by a brazier that hung from the ceiling on iron chains, and Dany could feel its heat upon her scalp as she climbed the steps, though the air was strangely cold. At the top was a corridor lined with doors, like one might see in any number of pillow houses, the sounds of moaning and slapping flesh vaguely emanating from the cracks beneath. Each door had a number carved into it. When Dany came to the door labeled “4,” she hesitated a moment before inserting the key and turning it. Inside the tiny room, the child she had seen trudging down the gangplank of the _Iron Victory_ sat upon a small feather bed. The coverlet was blue silk embroidered with orchids and hummingbirds, and the child wore only a threadbare shift. Her eyes were vacant and wet.[6]

“Why don’t you crawl under the coverlet, little one? You’ll get a chill,” Dany said, but her voice came out like a faint echo, and the little girl did not seem to hear it. Then, a man appeared from behind a curtain of green brocade just behind the bed. He was naked, his cock standing up against his stomach and wagging like a stubby tail. Dany watched in horror, as he seated himself next to the girl, clutched her gently by the shoulders, and pulled her down onto her back. Before he made to run his hands under her shift and crawl on top of her tiny body, Dany ran. When she stepped out of the room, however, there was no floor outside, and she fell into nothingness with a shriek.

Then she was back in Moqorro’s room, her face hot from staring into the fire, and wet with tears. The flames had died away some, leaving just a red flicker among embers.

“What did you see in the fire, your grace?” Moqorro asked her.

“I saw why the Weeping Lady weeps,” Dany said.

She looked again at the cinders, the ash, the burnt wreckage, and saw what must be the future of the Perfumed Garden.

Chapter 7: Cersei

The smell of roses and strawberries filled the air of Myrcella’s bedchamber, where her bath awaited her. Bernadette was unhooking the gown that the little queen was to wear to this ludicrous Festival of the Father, going on in Fairmarket of all places – that piss puddle of a river town that Littlefinger had chosen. It would need to be taken in a bit at the waist, Bernadette noted before Cersei dismissed her. She watched her daughter lower herself into the tub, pink petals and dried berry chunks floating about her. Myrcella was still growing thinner, despite every effort by the kitchens to add flesh to her. Cersei was so sick of ordering the kitchens to add more cream and bacon fat to the soups. Such concerns were so utterly dull: larders and silver, potato pots and butter churning or whatever bloody else went on. She could never have imagined she would even know what a fish boiler was, and now she was having to hear about such minutiae daily, since so many of the cowards among the staff had fled. Thankfully, Myrcella’s sweet influence had gathered enough help to keep the meals being served and the water being heated for a bath now and then. Most of the work was being done by girls around her age or younger, and now the place was overrun by the wretched little things, who were constantly underfoot. Cersei swore she saw her old playmate Melara Heatherspoon creeping around a turret stair one evening. Then she remembered she had shoved the girl into a well near twenty years past.

“Lady Mother,” Myrcella said when she had settled into her bath with her little knees poking up out of the water. “Why must you stay here? Won’t you come with me to Fairmarket? I shall be lonesome.”

Cersei knelt behind the tub, poured a small amount of hempseed oil on her fingers, and began to rub her daughter between the neck and shoulders. The knot on her left side felt like a pebble beneath the skin. Myrcella moaned softly when she pinched it behind her fingers.

“Perhaps you may become acquainted with Lord Baelish’s daughter,” Cersei offered. “It sounds as if she’s very clever. A queen’s lady would be an enviable position for her.”

“That depends upon what queen.”

Cersei stopped kneading her muscles and frowned. “There is only one queen, my love.”

Myrcella’s affliction was growing worse – that ugly jerking and twitching. Cersei blamed Dorne, and that disgusting Trystane. They must have poisoned her. Cersei couldn’t imagine how else it could have happened. No other Lannister she knew was so accursed.

“I don’t like to think of you here all by yourself either, Mother. I’m worried about you,” Myrcella said after spitting a bit of water out into the tub in front of her.

“Don’t spit,” Cersei said. “It’s not as if I’ll be all alone is it? I have lord Qyburn and Ser Robert.” _Little girls, little girls, everywhere I turn, I can see them…_

“What did the letter from Uncle Jaime say? Is he coming home?”

“Of course he is…soon, my love.” _Little girls, little girls, every day I eat sleep and breathe them…_

Cersei rose and rang the bell for Bernadette loudly. She had need of a drink of wine. She ran out into the corridor, practically knocking the handmaiden over as she passed, Myrcella calling out after her to come back. She ran until she came across a brass pot housing a dead fern, which had once been a bountiful mass of green fronds. She vomited into it forcefully, coughing and retching out diluted purple until her chest hurt. A pie-faced guard ran over and asked if she was all right, but she pushed past him and made for her chambers without a word. _Little cheeks, little teeth, everything around me is little… **[7]**_

Once in her room, she locked the door behind her. Jaime’s letter lay on the floor where she had dropped it. Cersei poured a goblet of wine and took a drink. She had gone through an entire carafe when she had sat down to read the letter that morning. For a moment she considered that it had been a dream, or some hallucination.

_Dear Cersei,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, for I’m afraid its contents must needs be absorbed with a stout heart. I regret to inform you that we have lost Riverrun and the Twins to the Brotherhood Without Banners, who have gathered many allies among the people of the Riverlands, both high and low. There has been a growing disillusionment (disullisionment?) among the people with regards to the Seven, given the hardship of the years since the War of the Five Kings. It seems this new god Rh’llor has taken quite a foothold, and the Brotherhood is now of two factions, the Hollow Hill Brotherhood and the Brotherhood of the Lady, both of which gain daily in number and power. It is really best, I think, to cooperate with them, given the circumstances. To that end, you should know that I have surrendered Casterly Rock to Brynden Tully and the River Lords, who are in leauge (league?) with both Brotherhoods as far as I can tell. The Westerlands and the Riverlands will likely be given over to the heir of Riverrun, who at the moment, and you will adore this part, is Lady Sansa Hardyng, formerly Sansa Stark._

_I had no choice in this matter, sweet sister. Your ill-informed decision to ally with Euron Greyjoy and give him free reign over the West has led to our doom. This Brotherhood, the Rivermen, and some forces in the North are all that’s left equipped to undo the damage your poorly chosen allegiance has caused. Sansa thankfully has not fallen at the burning alter of the Red God. She is still worshipping trees, rocks, and so forth, along with her baseborn brother and his army of Wildlings. Together with the Blackfish and his followers, they may be a match for Greyjoy, and could possibly rescue the realm from the result of your error in judgment._

_Do the right thing, for once, sweet sister, and bend the knee to Aegon VI, who calls himself Griff, at the first opportunity (oppurtinty?). I entreat you to allow our daughter to wed Trystane Martell, and deliver her to the safety of Dorne as soon as humanly possible. You surely cannot mean to marry her to Greyjoy, who I’m told prefers his wives tongeless (tongueless?). In the meantime, I am to Winterfell. I have reason to believe that Griff is there, possibly treating with Jon Snow. I will ask the prince for mercy, that he might allow you to return to the Rock to live out your last days. I will not be joining you. For my part, I shall be pledging my service to the Black Bastard as amendment to the crippling injury I caused his brother Brandon. I expect he will take my head instead._

_Please, if ever you had any love for me, and for the love I hope you still bear our daughter, do as I have suggested. It is truly your last hope._

_Sincerely,_

_Ser Jaime Lannister_

Cersei ripped the letter into tiny shreds, then ripped the shreds into shreds. However, there was good news in the letter, if it were indeed true that the imposter prince had gone to Winterfell. It would save Aurane Waters, her naval general, an added trip with his payload of wildfire. She only wished she could see the green flame melt the handsome face off Sansa’s murdering, traitorous skull. It made no matter to her that Myrcella had insisted on pardoning her – Cersei knew that little whore was a part of her son Joffrey’s death, even if no one could prove it. But if Jaime was going to Winterfell… _How I hate little stockings, little shoes and each little…_

A knock at the door was followed by Qyburn’s announcement of Captain Waters’s visit. Cersei took a drop of peppermint oil, and reached into her bodice to pull each breast to attention above her gown before inviting them in.

“Does her grace still desire the treatment we spoke of after the queen sails on the morrow?” Qyburn asked before taking his leave.

“Yes…but be sure to follow the instructions to the letter,” Cersei said.

“I always do, your grace.”

When Qyburn was gone, Aurane stepped forward, taking Cersei’s hand and kissing it.

“Sit, my lord,” Cersei said. “Drink.” She handed him a cup and he did as he was bid.

“What special treatment does Qyburn have for you, if I may ask, your grace?” Aurane sipped at his wine, his eyes travelling over every inch of Cersei’s body.

“You may not ask…” Qyburn had been providing her with a number of skincare and reducing treatments, employed to reverse the effects of aging – all in the deepest secrecy, and not only because many of them were rather…indelicate in methodology.

“I hope only that my lady is not ill,” Aurane said, smiling. His eyes were the color of the scum that had recently grown over the pond in the garden outside of the godswood. _Not purple, like Rhaegar’s was, but otherwise…_

“Your _queen_ …” Cersei said.

“Of course, your grace.”

Aurane’s hair was the same silver as Rhaegar Targaryen’s, and it was as thick and shiny, falling over her shoulders. He was nearly as tall, too. There were differences in the face, but when Cersei squinted her eyes, they melted away. She had thought Aurane’s loyalty lost once, after she had been imprisoned by the Faith, but after pirating his way from the Sea of Dorne to the Sea of Myrth, he had returned with enough wealth to make a sizable dent in their debt to the Iron Bank. She would have paid it off in full if that cursed imposter hadn’t raided the loot train on its way back to the Reach. Now the Bank was on his side. But she still had Aurane and his dromonds filled with plunder – and with wildfire. Enough pots of wildfire to put an end to the imposter’s fleet and whatever was left of Winterfell – and they would find a way to finish off the bloody River Lords as well.

“My dear captain…I am not ill, but I have ill news. My brother has turned against us. He conspires with the imposter prince and the Black Bastard.”

Aurane shook his head. “This is shocking, indeed,” he said. “Does the queen…does princess Myrcella know of this?”

“No…and she must not know. When you have rid the realm of the Bastard, I want you to take Jaime alive.”

“That could be complicated, your grace.”

“Nevertheless…he has certain valuable intelligence we need.”

“As you wish…and now…” Aurane held out his hand.

Cersei walked toward him slowly, and let him glide a hand up the bodice of her gown, a silk brocade overlaid with black lace. She turned to let him unhook it at the back, but he tore it open instead, and ran both of his hands over her naked shoulder blades and down to her hips. Cersei pulled the gown down to her ankles, revealing herself to him, relishing the look of hunger that crossed his face. She walked naked to the table and refilled her cup with wine. As she drank, she gave a seductive look toward Aurane, and commanded him, “Take off your clothes.”

He rose and immediately divested himself of his doublet, boots and breeches, flinging his shirt and smallclothes across the room. His body was everything Jaime’s had been in his youth, perhaps a bit leaner. He had the same deep creases separating his hips from his firm belly, the same hard plates on each side of his chest. Aurane had shaved his beard at her request, but a trail of silver hairs ran up from his navel, branching out at his breastbone. His legs were longer than Jaime’s, and his arms more gangly, hard with muscle. Cersei drank back the wine, then put the empty cup down and made her way toward him. She knelt before him and lovingly grasped his cock, which stuck straight outward from his body. When it was between her lips, she caressed the head with her tongue. Aurane moaned quietly, and placed his hand on the back of her head.

“Why Kingslayer,” she heard him say. “You oughtn’t be here…oh no…don’t watch…why would you ever?”[8]

He held Cersei’s head and gently pushed, so that more of his cock filled her mouth. It reached the back of her throat, and she fought a gag. She reached around and grabbed one of Aurane’s firm cheeks, digging her nails into the flesh as the saliva rushed out of her onto his member. She moved her head forward and backward, taking as much of the savory flesh of him as she could, the wine having loosened and opened her throat muscles. Aurane plucked himself from her face when he came, so that his seed splashed her lips and chin. She looked up at him with adoring eyes.

“Look at what you’ve done,” he said.

He sat and pulled her up, then flung her naked over his lap.

“Kingslayer, have a look,” he said, and began to thwack her hard against the buttocks with the palm of one hand.[9] The sting took Cersei’s breath away. Each time he slapped, the skin of her ass burned more and more, until she cried out. She squirmed off his lap and fell onto the floor, bumping her elbow, which rang with pain. She whined and rubbed it.

“What do you do?” Aurane mocked.

He picked her up from the floor and laid her down on the bed, then kissed her elbow softly. Cersei felt the wetness between her legs leaking to her thighs. She took one of his hands and brought it down to feel her there. Her captain stroked between the lips very gently at first, and then all of a sudden thrust three fingers inside her. Cersei writhed with pleasure, begging him to take her. Her captain turned her over and pulled her hips up into the air. When she felt him enter her, she reached between her legs and seized his manhood in her fingers.

“No…not there,” she said.

“As you wish, my queen,” Aurane said.

Aurane spit a glob of saliva that sent a shock of pleasure up Cersei’s spine when it landed, causing her sphincter to twitch. She used her fingers to rub the little button at the top of her slit, as Aurane’s member worked its way in, inch by inch. Her face and body were slick with sweat, as the mixture of ecstasy and agony exhausted her. Her captain pumped faster, harder, deeper, groaning. When Cersei reached back again and cupped his testicles in her fingers, she imagined she was young again, and married to the prince she was meant for. In that moment, Aurane Waters was the last dragon, not just a pirate with pretty hair.

The next day, when her daughter had set sail in the _Princess Myrcella_ , alongside the _Sweet Cersei_ packed full of pots of wildfire, Cersei returned to a deathly quiet Red Keep. In her solar, a tub was ready for her. Joy, Myrcella’s whipping girl, still hung from the rafters by her feet, tied with a rope that also pulled the ends of her long braid, so her head lay almost flush against her upper back. The opening in her throat had filled the tub only half full, but when Cersei slid her naked body into it, the blood came up inches from the rim.[10] It was warm at first, but soon grew cold. The liquid began to congeal and turn into clots that clung to her nipples and thickened in the crook of her knees. The tub had been lined with rose petals and lavender, which now added to the clumpiness of the blood, and soon the smell of rot overwhelmed their flowery scents. Cersei watched in horror as the blood dried in wavy patterns on her chest, on her thighs. She screamed out for Qyburn, but no one came. She closed her eyes against the horrid sight of the clots, and of the dead waif strung up above her, sobbing miserably. But then, she heard the door open, and footsteps rushing in. From behind her, someone poured in a generous pail full of steaming hot water that loosed the slimy goobers of blood until they were warm liquid again.

“There, there, my sweet,” a familiar female voice said. “It’s all right now.”

“Lady Merryweather? Taena?”

“That’s right…Taena is here for you, and everything is going to be all right.”

[1] Smith, Doug. _This is Not Happening_ , Season 4, Episode 8: Combat. “Stabbed in the Face,” March 23, 2018.

[2] Clark, Bob. _A Christmas Story,_ Warner Bros, 1983.

[3] Benioff & Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 2: “Home,” HBO 2016.

[4] Benioff & Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 1: “Dragonstone,” HBO, 2017.

[5] “Four Sticks,” Led Zeppelin, _Led Zeppelin IV_ , Atlantic, 1971.

[6] Knauf, Daniel, _Carnivale_ , Season 1, Episode 2: “After the Ball is Over,” HBO, 2003.

[7] Huston, Jon. _Annie_ , Columbia, 1982.

[8] Frost, Mark and David Lynch, _Twin Peaks_ , Season 1, Episode 6: “Cooper’s Dream,” ABC, May 10. 1990.

[9] _Chappelle’s Show._ Season 1, Episode 8, “Real Movies: _Ghost_ – Uncensored,” Comedy Central, March 12, 2003.

[10] Based on tales of Elizabeth Báthory: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_B%C3%A1thory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


End file.
